LE L A  N  D 

SYNCOPATION 


SYNCOPATION 


LEL AND 


BOSTON 

THE  POETRY-DRAMA  COMPANY 
79/9 


Copyright,   1919,  by 
The  Poetry- Drama  Company 


SYNCOPATION 


470840 


SYNCOPATION 

There  by  the  river  that  first  fair  day  of  Spring 
Or  in  the  vague  romance  of  a  city  night 
Always  your  face  before  me. 
What  was  the  night?    I  remember  you, 
The  blue  of  your  eyes, 
The  wistfulness  of  your  flesh 
Somewhere  in  the  city 
Looking  down  upon  the  park 

Moonlight  and  the  monotone  of  people  in  the  streets 
Or  over  a  cafe  table  on  a  Sabbath  afternoon; 
August,  a  secret  room  beside  the  sea 
Far  off  the  throb  of  'cellos  and  the  lilt  of  lithe  violins 
Cinematic,  transitory.  .  .  memories  of  glamored  days, 
Flashes  from  romanced  nights 

Sagan's  at  Christmas  .  .  .  and  heard  your  voice  again 
A  damask  room,  lights  dim 
And  tearing  the  silks  and  laces 
That  half-concealed  your  beauty  .  .  .  Traffic 
And  the  drone  of  plodding  men  below 
Fools,  fools  they  were,  but  naught  could  tell  them  so  ... 
May-flower  road,  a  car,  what  was  the  year? 
Citylight  palloring  your  frail,  wanton  face 
Your  eager  flesh  that  sobbed  with  quick  desire  .  .  . 
A  song  to  Eros  ...  a   dance   to   Syncopa  .  .  .  our 
symphony  of  life  vivacious  . . . 


Autumn. . .  the  rush  of  crowds. . .  the  caress  of  color. 

Obbligato  to  our  youth  .  .  . 

I  touched  your  hand  and  you  swayed 

There  is  pleasure 

Catch  it,  snatch  it 

Through  a  snowfall  arm  in  arm 

Don't  worry,  dear,  there  is  no  harm 

Hold  me  that  way, 

Ardente! 

The  vagrant  loves  are  all  that  live  .  .  . 

Climbing  apartment  stairs  eagerly 

Opening  doors  into  soft,  cerise  bedrooms 

Lovers  of  mine 

Breathing  their  perfume,  sensing  their  lure 

Here  we'll  be  happy  .  .  .  the  world  pauses 

Transient,  inconsequent 

Cherishing  only  the  illusions  of  the  here-and-now   .   .   . 

April,  a  Colonial  inn,  the  town  historic, 

Staid  in  the  legends  and  landmarks  of  antiquity; 

Why  did  I  first  possess  you  there? 

Pagans    of    the    contemporary    in   the    land    of    the 

Puritans. 
The  ironic  verve  of  it  had  a  thrill  to  eternally 

dramatize  the  night,  the  month,  the  year 
Flesh  and  spirit  .  .  .  the  old  hymns  yielding  to  a 

madder  syncopation. 

Looking  out  that  night  upon  the  relicted  square 
Elthia,  beloved.  .  .  beauty  at  last 
The  radiant  flower  of  passion  triumphant  over  the 

fetid  garbage  of  the  Puritanage; 

[8] 


Historic,  dear? 

Our  night  of  passion  made  it  so  ... 

September  again  .  .  .  cadenza  .  .  .  youth  silks  by. 

Turnpike,  camisole,  cafe  chartreuse 

Through  the  park  and  up  the  river 

Staccato  whispering,  your  voice  all  fire  and  desire. 

Sudden . . .  swaying  . . .  soft  buff  through  pastel  pink 

Quick  continuity 

Life  is  so  short;  can  you  capture  it. 

Furious,  curious,  insatiate 

Why  do  you  always  want  to  kiss  me  in  public. 

Stop,   they're   looking.    You're   darling.    You   order. 

It's  cute  here,  isn't  it.    All  stucco. 
Now  your  hand  at  a  matinee 
We  hug  our  secret. 
Here's  a  Florentine  inn 
Sit  in  this  alcove  and  I'll  tell  you  why  the  whimsical 

is  never  art. 
Hush,  dear, 

Tis  better  you're  illiterate  of  all  but  love; 
The  more  the  pretension,  the  less  the  charm. 
Snap  out  that  light  and  climb  in  — 
I  love  that  chemise 
As  delicate  and  restiff  as  your  arms; 
Kiss  me  like  that  again, 
I'll  make  an  artist  of  you  yet  .  .  . 
Let's  take  the  canoe  and  paddle  down  the  river; 
Sorbet,  nougat  and  the  latest  records;  and  if  you're 

good 
We'll  snug  in  at  Jansen's  for  a  canter  and  a  cognac. 

[9] 


Yes,  the  river's  historic 

But  don't  throw  that  bottle  overboard 

They've  passed  laws  against  it. 

Let's  paddle  over  to  the  shade  and  lie  in  close. 

This  day  will  soon  be  over. 

There's  the  5.26  on  the  bridge 

The  clock  watchers'  special  from  the  hive  of  industry, 

As  the  dailies  say. 

You  know,  Fran,  I'd  rather  be  an  idler  here 

Than  the  greatest  schwab  that  ever  cleaned  a  Street; 

We'll  tarry  the  carry  at  Jacot's,  and  check  out. 

I've  got   the   roadster   there  ...  a   little   whirl   to 

Sorncroft. 

Now  give  me  your  hand,  dear;  there's  a  mirror. 
It'll  make  a  hundred  an'  ten;   five  gears  forward; 

some  bus  .  .  . 

What  a  pretty  town  .  .  .  slow  down  a  bit. 
Yes,  the  white  old-Colonial  somehow  thrills  .  .  . 
A  Wayside  inn  .  .  .  now  there's  tradition  — 
I'd  like  to  take  over  the  place,  put  a  live  revue  in 

there, 

Get  Art  to  write  some  sway  songs, 
A  cute  chorus  of  twelve,  three  principals, 
And  speed  the  intimate  all  over  the  room; 
Open  up  the  taproom,  dust  out  the  chambers, 
And  stock  the  buffet  with  some  rare  Margaux  — 
Wouldn't  old  Longfellow  turn  over  once  or  twice; 
Twould  be  a  new  thrill  anyway,  and  that's  what 

counts  .  .  . 
Spring  in  Philistia, 

[10] 


Do  you  remember,  Sestra? 
Motoring  through  the  provinces 
Amused  at  their  petty  rule  of  rote 
Sunday  evening  to  a  little  village  church, 
Degage  agnostics 

To  their  great  Lord  God,  the  Jesuschrist. 
Your  hand  in  mine  as  during  prayer 
I  half -slept  and  dreamed: 
As  if  one  drab  Sabbath 
You  had  come  down  the  dun-lined  aisle 
A  radiant  flash  of  orange-rose  charmeuse, 
Frailly  exotic,  naively  sensual, 
Slender,  silken  legs 
Straight  to  the  pulpit 
And  suddenly  warm,  tender  arms 
Clasped  the  startled  pastor, 
Your  eyes  a  pagan  flame  of  carnal  promise; 
Then  quickly  your  lightly-perfumed  lips  on  his  — 
Releasing  him  with  an  amused  faire  debonnaire, 
A  pirouette  on  the  platform  edge 
Then  with  a  rippling  mime  step 
Lightly  past  the  pens  of  the  oafish  phils  and  phlegs  — • 
A  youthful,  laughing,  romanced  vision  of  beauty, 
Composite  anathema  of  their  life  entire  .  .  . 
And  is  it  not  an  easy  quest  of  beauty, 
Merely  to  love  all  that  the  pureswine  hate; 
To   search   out  from  the  slag-heap  of  their   disap- 
proval 

The  brilliant  jewels  of  beauty; 
Scrape  from  them  the  rusty  coatings  of  their  bans, 


And  see  them  splendent  at  last, 

Vividly,  intensely  beautiful  .  .  . 

Then  fling  our  challenge  madly,  gladly  down 

At  ways  and  days  and  praise  of  men; 

Was  beauty  duty;  then  laughed  their  sophistries  to 

scorn. 

Ah,  let  them  mouth  their  mob  moralities 
They  could  not  sense  the  splendor  of  a  dream; 
Pledge  them  a  smile,  cherie,  as  we  pass  on 
And  leave  their  laws  as  trampled  dust 
Upon  the  road  of  our  rebellion  .  .  . 
June  evening,  and  lights  of  the  ships  at  sea, 
A  motor-inn  on  the  Arnton  road  — 
Could  I  ever  forget  your  words  that  night: 
Well,  be  a  genius 
And  a  hundred  years  from  now,  when  you're  a  long 

time  dead, 
Some  fatandforty  matron  will  enrapture  the 

Woman's  Club 

Reading  jems  from  your  work. 
Was  it  to  bring  them  a  douche  of  beauty; 
An  eternal  curtsy  to  their  gods  of  tin  and  pewter  .  .  . 
Across  the  railside  cemetery,  over  the  sorden  marsh 
And  the  squant  gastanks 
Stood  the  factories  — 
Be  a  poet, 

There's  a  pretty  garret  for  you; 
An  oak  commode  in  a  crumbling  attic  over  a  reeking 

delicatessen  — 


Thank  you,  but  Ambre  Evette  has  a  more  tangible 

thrill  .  .  . 

Looks  like  a  nice  job; 
But  I  want   the  body  old-rose  and  the   wheels   of 

silver- white ; 

All  right,  send  me  the  sketches  for  approval  — 
That  line  of  windshield  and  cowl;  it  must  be  so; 
And  don't  forget  the  nine  special  lights 
And  the  buffet  by  the  dash  .  .  . 
Swing  your  hips,  beckon, 
Lift  your  eyes  slyly,  pirouette; 
You  are  charming,  little  ones, 
Vivid  virgins  of  a  first  blooming  — 
Thank  your  Gods,  my  dears,  for  me; 
That  I  never  let  tragedy  stalk  into  your  romance  — 
That  the  blooming  never  bore  fruit  .  .  . 
Sentimentalist  .  .  .  well  rather 
I  enjoy  it  ...  it  thrills  me 

Legs  always  allured  me  ...  silken  .  .  .  seductive 
Then  the  body  .  .  .  the  face  ...  it  has  to  be  pretty. 
A  trifle  degenerate  perhaps  — 
Yes  indeed  .  .  .  that  thrills  me  too  .  .  . 
Bohemian  in  the  land  of  the  Puristines, 
Aristocrat  to  their  clown  mobility, 
Pagan  to  their  spawning  instinct, 
Poet  born  out  of  time  .  .  . 
And  then  when  fame  came, 
Well,  a  Swift  end  to  them  — 

The  dream  triumphs 

Cause,  custom,  curriculum,  current  event; 


Bankers  and  bakers,  preachers  and  fakirs. 

Here  are  your  bans  —  I  circle  them  easily, 

Your  laws  I  evade  cleverly, 

Your  taboos  I  detour  adroitly  .  .  . 

Somewhere  they  crossed  my  path 

The  senile  moralists 

In     their    everlasting     discordance    of     "  Naughty, 

naughty;  " 
The  empty  prints  forever  stuffed  with  the  tedious 

sobbing  of  the  slob  sisters; 
The  old-maid  mummers  of  the  virtuous,  hating  the 

beautiful, 

Jealous  of  life  and  those  who  loved; 
Critics  female,  neuter,  epicene  ...  a  cynic  smile  for 

all  of  you; 

Your  decorous  dirges  already  tire  .  .  . 
The  drama  of  the  trivial  sublime, 
A  slapstick  scherzo  for  the  gods: 
Pale  pastors  from  the  provinces  frocking  by, 
Bramae  browsing,  purists  sniffing, 
Gelid  spinsters  reading  over  their  teacups, 
A  member  of  the  Law-and-Order  Committee  peering 

into  a  suspected  vintner's  — 
Was  this  the  worship  of  beauty? 
Poets  polishing  pallid  verse  in  dreary  hall-rooms, 
Hucksters  yawning  over  the  evening  paper, 
Dirty  children  bawling  in  street-cars, 
Shoe-buyers  herding  off  to  take  in  a  show, 
A  side-street  preacher  in  a  hell  of  a  fury  over  Hell, 
A  semidemi  crying  over  a  blasted  life, 


A  financier  enravished  with  a  red-blood  story, 

An  art  student  idylling  at  the  museum, — 

Epic,  indeed! 

Twould  make  a  ripping  novel  for  the  story-tellers, 

The  plodding  plothawks, 

The  histrionic  historians  of  the  commonplace  .  .  . 

I  saw  him  on  the  train,  a  2/8's  mind  was  all  he  had, 

Reading  the  investment  pages  greedily, 

Squinting  face  and  fishy  eyes; 

His  wife  one  of  those  women  who  make  virtue  a 

virtue 
And  ugliness  beauty  .  .  .  both  of  them  average  and 

there's  the  comedy  .  .  . 

The  musty  mould  of  a  small-town  Baptist  church; 
Rusting  tin  and  rotting  wood, 
Rancid  carpets  and  reasty  cellars; 
The  hollow  hokum  of  the  righteous  creed, 
The  petty  pulpiteers  forever  gibbering  the  glory  of 

God; 

Pious,  rut-worn  devoutists 

Endlessly  shouting  their  damns  and  shams  .  .  . 
Out   of   wind-swept   city   streets   into   cosy  taverns 

tedesco, 

Perfumed  and  furred  in  February, 
And  saw  her  face  go  white  like  years  that  die  — 
Or  words  to  that  effect  .  .  . 
Sometime,  vaguely, 

Whirling  down  from  the  mountains  with  Eralie. 
Through  a  village  quickly,  hand  to  nose; 
Small-town  toilers  mill-bound  Monday  morn. 


A  city  and  the  burring  twang  of  traffic. 

A  street,  a  shop,  a  workroom, 

The  dull,  lacklustre  eyes  of  those  who  rise  at  six. 

Apricots  and  prunes. 

Its  horrible  injustice  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  .  .  . 

And  one  there  was  who  seemed  so  like  my  Lyria; 

Life  was  so  dreary,  drab  — 

Seduction  at  least  would  be  eventful. 

It  was  .  .  . 

On   the   Avenue  they're  putting   out   a   canopy   for 

Cordelia, 

She  only  came  out  six  or  seven  months  ago; 
Her  father  is  the  Blank  of  Blank  &  Blank-Blank 
With  offices  and  boardroom  on  the  street; 
Tis  said  their  tastes  are  simple  .  .  .  they  are  ... 
Go  make  your  pile  in  your  asstigmatic  way 
And  leave  it  to  your  college  or  your  school; 
That's  all  your  life  is,  all  it  means  to  you. 
Here's  your  reward  ...  go,  take  it  to  your  grave, — 
Someday,  mayhap,  a  verdant  college  calf  may  scratch 

a  match  upon  your  bust  .  .  . 
Afternoon  in  the  public  library, 
The  great  unwashed  rag-picking  for  an  education; 
Forever  turning  the  classic  pages, 
Inhaling  the  must  and  rot  of  ages  .  .  . 
"And  Johnny's  doin'  awfully  well, 
Though  he's  not  as  smart  as  Ned."    Do  tell! 
"  Ned  is  a  better  scholar,  yes." 
Now  isn't  that  nice;  well,  I  should  guess  .  .  . 
And  saw  them  huddled  at  the  grim  machines  — 

[16] 


Slaves,  and  so  forth  ..."  God!  Was  it  right!  " 

Well,  what  was  right,  or  was  there  God. 

The  lyric  calls  — 

Had  I  time  to  be  dominie  and  tell  Mayme  there  aint 
none  .  .  . 

And  saw  the  critics  dipping  pointless  pens, 

"  Now  this  is  bad,  and  this  is  best," 

Each  one  as  futile  as  the  rest  .  .  . 

Spring  again: 

Simple  squaws  shaking  blankets  from  balconies  of 
stock-ugly  three-deckers, 

Snow  melting  from  french-roofed  houses; 

And  I  still  can  hear  the  old  man's  voice,  and  see  him 

Worn  out  with  family  cares  and  business  burdens: 

"What  are  your  intentions,  my  boy;  are  they  hon- 
orable? " 

And  in  my  heart  was  sudden  cynic  pity, 

For  already  I  had  taken  his  daughter  .  .  . 

The  sadly  stupid,  drab  and  dreary, 

How  they  weary  me; 

A  brass-band  screaking  down  the  street 

With  colors  flying; 

The  herding  instinkt  .  .  .  small-towns  and  sewing 
circles. 

Ladies  and  the  Whitman  Club  .  .  .  Odd  fellahs  and 
odder  women  — 

But  never  odd,  more's  the  pity  —  merely  people  — 

And  so  it  goes; 

They  still  believed  in  church 


And  lifted  weary  eyes  to  the  long-deferred  salva- 
tion .  .  . 

Into  a  restaurant  at  noontime, 

Mothers  material  watching  over  prim  daughters 
decorous 

With  the  eyes  of  the  hawk  and  the  face  of  the  lynx. 

Velma  Vergen,  what  a  name  for  a  nymph 

Someday  .  .  .  soon  — 

Well,  your  debut  was  charming  .  .  . 

A  keener  thrill  ...  a  deeper  sensing 

Tis  all  that  matters. 

And  leave  to  the  metric  purists 

The  vapid  husks  of  the  vicarious  — 

Sex  is  all  ... 

Autumn  .  .  .  and  leaves  falling  on  the  quadrangle 
of  the  alma  material; 

Campus  days  and  all  that  sort  of  rot. 

The  griping  nausea  of  the  stunted  minds, 

The  tedious  tradition  of  professorial  ignorance; 

Who  wouldn't  sicken  there, 

Conning  their  senescent  formulae  .  .  . 

A  bold  joke  in  a  burlesque  show  — 

Not  enough  comedy  .  .  .  too  many  dance  specialties, 
and  the  plot  needs  bracing. 

Didactic?    Sure.    Let's  go  to  a  movie; 

Sit  in  and  watch  them  suck  the  saccharine, 

Swill  the  syrup,  lap  the  lollipop. 

Life  well  deserves  one  happy  ending  — 

A  fade-out  to  this  luscious  "  art "... 

The  kind  of  man  who  runs  a  newspaper, 

[18] 


A  dodding  stagnentity,  prude- souled  and  puritan- 
idealed, 

A  platonic  platitude  adrift. 

The  fabled  glory  of  the  press; 

Another  merry  rabble-gabble  mess. 

The  mob,  and  as  the  leaders  read,  so  runs  the 
flock  .  .  . 

And  he's  a  great  man  in  the  Town. 

A  banker-pillar  of  the  church, 

A  face  steeped  in  business  ...  a  whiskered  hypo- 
crite. 

He  never  drops  the  mask,  the  pose  ...  it  pays; 

Tell  him  what  an  ass  he  is,  and  see  his  guard  go 
down  .  .  . 

And  passion  proletaire: 

Tis  Saturday  night  .  .  .  the  moralist  a'tingle 

Races  home  to  the  breasts  of  his  Agnes, 

Thrice  mounts  her  casually,  then  falls  asleep. 

Evil-minded  —  where  did  I  hear  that  word  before; 

Who  said  it? 

Some  prude  squeaking  falsetto  from  a  sewer  — 

Clarence,  recite! 

Camera  .  .  .  the  silhouette  spectacle  flickers  for  a 
while,  then  fades 

Ambition  always. 

What  was  the  stage? 

I  stood  there  singing 

But  I  remember  only  a  blur  of  ecstatic  faces 

And  a  fierce  desire  to  cry  at  them,  "  Go  home." 

One  and  all  they  hailed  me  master, 


Crowding  the  dressing-room  when  the  opus  ended. 

I  heard  them  buzzing  and  caught  words  of: 

"  Genius,  greatest  artist  of  the  age." 

Artist?     I   denied   it  ...  how   could  it   be  ...  the 

opera  an  art! 

By  the  bessemer  idols  of  the  republic  —  No. 
Utterly  devoid  of  power  or  poignancy, 
The  very  reason  of  it  all  —  the  theme  — 
Shallow,  outworn  plot  pretension; 
The  art  of  mistaken  identity,  bricabrac  scenery  and 

mouldy  costume  plates. 
Where  was  the  master,  the  librettist,  with  a  theme 

supreme; 

Then  it  would  be  art,  and  singing  beauty 

Another  day,  another  hour, 

A  white  arc  of  faces  and  lentezza  violins 

As  I  betrayed  the  second-maid  to  the  chupchup  of  the 

maternal  gum-chewers  .  .  .  lovers  of  the  drama. 
A  blue-and-orange  poster  on  that  theatre  wall; 
One  arm  about  her  waist,  the  other  pressing  her 

down, 

Lip-to-lip,  her  head  thrown  back  in  passionate  sur- 
render — 

A  six-sheet  tribute  to  the  lure  of  love, 
Eye-enticement  for  the  yokelry; 
Ring  down  this  curtain;  damn,  I  should  have  fixed 

this  'script; 
Why  should  I  have  to  stay  on  till  the  close,  and  clasp 

this  loricated  clothes-rack  for  a  curtain. 
Could  this  be  glamor  ? 

[20] 


Night  after  night,  day  after  day, 

Mouthing  these  varnished  lines; 

The  same,  inane  farrago  of  words,  with  that  silly 
tag  — 

A  caramel  catering  to  the  canaille. 

Acting  of  greatness,  acting  of  genius  —  for  these 
Beotians ! 

Ever  the  artist  of  words, 

Equally  triumphant  over  the  twelvemo  pantry- 
enchanters 

And  the  academic,  campus-cultured  stalewits. 

Whenever  one  of  these  chillpens 

Feels  a  twinge  of  doubt  as  to  his  importance  in 
Letters 

He  hastily  summons  his  brothers  to  conclave, 

And  they  speedily  form  a  Society, 

Conferring  upon  themselves 

Celebrity,  Supereminence  and  Renown; 

The  elemental  press  soberly  chronicles  the  event, 

And  the  farce  fades  to  bathos. — 

An  amused  shrug  as  they  pass  on  to  their  oblivion  .  .  . 

And  I  who  knew  all,  probed  all,  saw  all  clearly, 

Their  petty  strivings  and  my  great  ideal, — 

Could  I  cut  it  to  their  format 

And  slap  it  out  to  the  87^  climacteric  critics  of  the 
periodic  press  .  .  . 

Only  self  counts, 

And  that's  why  your  book  failed, 

Your  poetry,  your  drama. 

You  photograph  mediocrity; 

[21] 


I  probe  self,  and  triumph  — 

That  is  my  supremacy  .  .  . 

Born  the  lover,  and  found  women  utterly  atonic; 

Born  the  poet,  and  forever  heard  the  multitude  re- 
citing the  dainty  doggerel  of  the  day; 

Born  the  actor,  and  saw  the  theatre  barren  of  art, 
a  tawdid  thing  of  real  estate  .  .  . 

Here  again  the  emollient  sex  has  given  art  the  leni- 
tive. 

The  torpid,  turgid  tribe 

Cramming  the  presses  and  galleries 

With  their  gargoyled  grotesques,  their  drooping  imi- 
tations, 

Their  self-confessed  ignorances  of  life  and  beauty  .  .  . 

Women  who  talk  of  the  passion  grande, 

Failing  and  paling  to  futility  ... 

Lover  supreme  when  no  women  loved, 

Sensualist  ever  to  their  lyric  lure; 

Seeking  the  epic  —  and  finding  only  doggerel. 

From  brothel  to  boudoir, 

Making  the  descent  easily, 

And  all  I  captured  was  an  eager  imperfection. 

Sad  eyes  pleading  wistfully,  hopeful  and  hesitant, 

And  no  Pierrette  for  Pierrot  .  .  .  well,  a  smile  for  that ; 

They  all  run  nicely  to  form  —  and  on  schedule  — 

Another'll  be  along  in  a  minute. 

Bold  cues  from  Avenue  cuties, 

Veiled,  awkward  looks  from  matrons  over  teacups, — 

Was  this  the  cost  of  being  beautiful? 

Or  was  it  ...  well,  here  is  the  drab  composite: 

[22] 


An  actress,  famous  as  it  were, 

But  she  couldn't  act  ...  I  learned  that  soqn. 

She  was  one  of  those  women 

Who  make  capital  of  the  burne Jones  parable  for  the 

long-eared  garishtocracy; 
About  her  an  exoticism  of  the  East — side, 
With  a  crafty,  Semitic  talent  for  business; 
And  she  took  a  good  photograph  — 
But  a  lover!    Boutade  bathetique! 
Her  cheapness  sickened  ...  a  sublimated  shopgirl 
With  the  heredity  of  the  lowest  peasantry. 
She  pecked  her  kisses  parrot-like; 
Impassioned  she  made  delicious,  gurgling  sounds, 
Prattling  about  the  wonder  of  it  all; 
And    to    this    day    she    wonders    why    I    fled    from 

her 

A  notorable  woman  writer, 

Supposed  to  be  sensational  in  amour. 

You  read  her  trush  between  covers;  they  blurb  it  out 

by  the  yard. 

A  half -thought  that  perhaps  she'd  be  intense; 
She  seemed  to  have  sophistication. 
Well,  she  utterly  lacked  passion; 
Loved  like  a  collegegirl  sparked  or  a  flapper  frivved. 
I  still  shudder  at  the  way  she  had 
Of  clutching  me  by  the  lapel,  and  simping, 
"Kiss  ime,   darling,"   her   mouth   puckered   like   an 

ingenue's  .  .  . 

Quick  conquest,  swifter  boredom. 
Kiss  an'  tell  .     .  hell  . 


23 


A  painter  —  by  grace  of  a  dictionary, 

Smugging  her  stupid  question 

One  night  in  her  gairish  studio, 

"  Possession  or  desire,  which  is  most  beautiful?  " 

The  clinquant  dilettante  trembling  in  my  arms. 

Why  couldn't  I  have  taken  her  grotesquery  for  a  warning 

Before  I  pushed  her  over  — 

She  was  as  passive  as  a  verb. 

And  so  it  goes  — 

Aesthete,  harlot,  goodwife,  duchess; 

An  absolutist  ever, 

Had  I  patience  to  be  forever  guiding  them  past  the 

trivial. 

Another  .  .  .  the  fatras  press  dubbed  her 
"  The  famous  society  leader." 
She  had  one  foot  in  a  blast-furnace, 
The  other  in  a  peerage, 
And  lacked  the  wit  to  know  there  was  nothing 

between  them. 
Her    monosyllabled    idea    of    the    scheme    of    things 

might  have  been  lisped  by  a  debutante. 
She  thought  Indian  music  and  baseball  adorable, 
Europe  a  synonym  for  art, 
The  world  created  for  optimists, 
And  all  the  other  stock  puerilities  of  the  provinces. 
I  suppose  she  even  thought  me  a  brute  when  I  left 

her. 
Well,  I  was  a  snob  and  proud  of  it;  a  brusq  in  a  world 

of  bores  .  .  . 
March,  mud  and  manhattan; 


The  vivid  poetry  of  industry, 

The  mighty  dreamers  of  commerce  — 

Juvenal,  fox-trot! 

Selfmade  illiterates  crowding  the  prints,  too  doltish 
to  know  the  joke's  on  them. 

Drygoods  aristocrat,  toady  and  sucker, 

Drop-shop  patrician,  proletarian,  mucker,— 

When  they  think,  they  stink. 

Always  the  delicacy  of  Jasmin  or  Muguet, 

The    subtle    essences    that    served    another   purpose 
besides  the  sensual  — 

Less  beautiful,  but  vastly  more  utilitarian  — 

Forever  to  keep  the  stench  of  their  atrophy  from 
contracting  my  nostrils  .  .  . 

Downtown    that    roaring    travesty    they    call    Big 
Business, 

And  wonder  why  a  poet  cannot  write  it  down; 

Could  they  but  know, 

So  great  is  the  grime  and  slime  of  it, 

Tis  all  a  poet  could  do  to  live  it  down. 

Madrigals  to  machinery,  sonnets  to  soap, 

Lyrics  to  textiles,  teething-rings  and  tungsten! 

An  endless  vomit  of  system  .  .  . 

Genius  in  a  land  of  technicians, 

Ego  in  a  perpetual  rigmarole  of  science  — 

Company,  corporation,  factory,  shop, 

Whistled  my  fingers  at  its  cheap  pretension  .  .  . 

"And  this  book  of  yours; 

Somehow  it's  pitched  too  high;   too  rosy;    too  ro- 
mantic." 

[25] 


Well,  did  I  dip  my  pen  for  fools, 

The  feeble  statusquo  of  age. 

Romantic,  to  be  sure  .  .  .  and  always  so, 

As  long  as  the  intensity  of  youth  makes  art  supreme. 

My  life  both  lyric  and  epic, 

And  I  pen  it  as  I  please  .  .  . 

Could  satire  melt  the  filthy  film  of  your  aggregated 

ignorance, 
Or  irony  drive  a  wedge  of  wisdom  into  your  gaping, 

babbling  mouths, — 
The  pen  trembles  before  the  task. 
The  din  of  the  rabble  swarming  along, 
There    was    your    romance,    and    there    was    your 

song  .  .  . 

People,  people,  people, 
Come,  let  me  put  you  in  the  book, 
The  lithe  libretto  of  my  life; 
Stand  in  your  place,  and  take  the  lines  I  give  you; 
Wear  the  fool's  cap,  mouth  the  dummy's  part, 
I  direct;  you  play  the  mummy's  part: 
Mildewed  critics  and  altered  professors 
Flimsily  propaganding  the  angloenglish  conventional; 
Poets,  male  and  feeble,  eternally  praising  each  other; 
Women  who  write  dainty,  decorous  lyrics  to  love  — 
Poor  dears  who've  never  known  a  passion; 
Adjective  poets,  polishing,  prefacing,  diagramming, 
Copying,  classifying,  annotating, 
Culting  their  sick  criticism, 
Herding  their  pale  classicism. 
Was  life  to  be  taken  up  listlessly  by  lumpish  artisans, 


26 


Hamstrung  with  trochees, 

And  castrated  with  iambic  pentameters! 

One  side,  finikins, 

Perfection  does  not  lie  that  way. 

Stiflers  of  emotion,  suppressors  of  self  — 

It  was  as  well;  you  never  had  a  thing  to  tell. 

And  I  rode  over  you  ...  a  deep  smile  for  your 
inanity  .  .  . 

People,  people,  people, 

I  bury  you  here  .  .  .  tis  your  only  monument: 

Small-talk  women  with  eyes  forever  on  the  >main 
chance, 

Ex-preachers  newly-converted  to  ways  of  liberality, 

Blackneck  socialists  and  putty-faced  bohemians  pass- 
ing proclamations  over  rotten  red  ink, 

Editors  and  critics  who  grew  up  with  the  soil,  and  are 
still  dirty, 

Rubberstamps  of  the  counting-room, 

Pack-horses  mired  .  .  .  prize  students  still  monarchic, 

Academic  asses  that  weep  at  a  thought  of  their  alma 
maternity, 

Red-blooded  He-men  awkward  about  teawagons  — 

Metropolitan  as  a  magazine, 

Men  who  praise  women  as  artists  and  think  politics 
a  noble  calling  .  .  . 

Radical  academists  .  .  .  professional  women, 

Whole-souled  democrats, 

Compilers  of  anthologies  —  the  cataloguers  of  medi- 
ocrity, 

Women  who  lecture  on  the  Higher  Mysticism, 


Women  who  lecture, 

Women, 

Little  reviewers,  new  republicans, 

Juvenile  publishers  of  menopausic  school-teachers, 

Neverclever  critics, 

Actresses  who  haunt  the  boards  and  memory  with 
atrocious  puppeting, 

Husbands,  wives, 

Wives,  husbands, 

Maids  who  have  slipped  by  Spring's  awakening, 

Young  composers,   violinists,  pianists  —  earnest   vir- 
tuosi in  the  continent  convention, 

Indian  poetasters,  Hispanic  hoofers  —  latest  discharge 
from  polyglot  privies, 

Maggoty  maidens  co-relating  the  obvious  in  anaemic 
ochre, 

Best-cellar  illiterati  recreating  literature, 

And  pale-stale  poets  who  deify  vegetation, — 

An   ever-ridiculous    pageant    of   blustering   inferior- 
ity ... 

Mechanic,  pedagogue,  housewife  and  clerk, 

Write  a  jingle  about  them  and  see  how  they  perk  .  .  . 

Horribly  married  .  .  .  marriage  .  .  .  the  word  sickens. 

Upon  it  is  based  their  drama,  literature  and  song  — 

And  so  tedium  .  .  . 

Crowds,  crowds,  where  is  the  thrill? 

As  poignant  as  a  time-table  or  a  bill-of-fare  .  .  . 

There  is  a  city: 

They  call  it  New  York,  and  often  say  with  grotesque 
pride  that  it  is  the  biggest  thing  of  its  kind. 

[28] 


It  is  ...  I  wont  dispute  — 

The  thing  is  ugliness; 

There  in  that  rotspot  of  the  world 

All  the  loutish  ragtag  of  the  republics 

Have  congregated  to  consecrate  the  Philistine  tradi- 
tion .  .  . 

The  charming  intensity  of  the  common  people, 

Another  sickly  shimmy  of  the  democratic  creed, — 

This  Sue  or  Sadie  married,  this  Jake  or  John  in 
trade  — 

There  is  their  literature; 

Primeval  primprudes  yelping  at  the  erotic  — 

There  is  their  criticism. 

Bathetic  socialists  forever  at  their  silly  code; 

I  mourn  for  them,  and  so  do  their  nails. 

Let's  hope  that  in  the  millennium  there'll  be  towels 
and  soap  for  every  Thomas  and  Richard  .  .  . 

And  Bohemia  — 

There  too,  absolute  evidence  of  the  rule  of  the  com- 
mercial propieties, 

Reflecting  all  the  stalely-wicked  virtues  of  the  rustic 
provincial  .  .  . 

Women  artists! 

Well,  there  is  a  magazine,  there  is  a  book, 

There  is  a  theatre,  there  is  a  gallery  — 

I  ask  you,  Sestra,  are  they  art? 

Women  novelists  heaving  huge  obviosities  wickedly, 

Women  poets  and  painters  chopping  out  lines  as 
passionate  as  pastry. 

Married  vestals  who  jingle  chastely, 

[29] 


And  prolipic  critics  who  praise  them. 
Women  in  art!  God  save  the  smirk! 
Bring  them  up  to  their  indictment  ...  the  verdict 

stands  — 
Back  to  your  knitting  and  your  slops; 

I  tire  of  you 

Sob  fiddle,  mute  cornet,  bang  banjo  — 

Mill-town,  swill-town, 

Academists  crowding  the  gutter 

Billboard,  trolley-car, 

Wops  and  cattle  herding, 

Opera  House,  livery  stable, 

Star-Spangled  Britannia  God  Bless  Our  Home 

America  I  Love  You 

Jazz 

This  was  the  land  and  the  people,  Caressa, 

This  was  the  year,  and  the  place 

Of  our  love. 

Drab  days  and  futile  hours, 

And  would  our  love,  then,  prove  as  uneventful, 

Reading  that  night  the  everlasting  question  in  your 

eyes  .  .  . 

Moonlight  over  the  city, 

Snatches  of  syncopation  vivace  across  the  park, 
And  passion  sang  the  answer  in  your  last  caress. 
What  of  that  essay  on  the  ethics  of  the  flesh  — 
When  you're  older  .  .  .  put  it  away  now  .  .  . 
Live  it  ... 

Adorable,  I  do  love  you 
Even  the  way  I  sing  love  .  .  .  what  more? 

[30] 


Let  down  your  hair  .  .  .  let's  live  a  poem 

Hold  me  that  way,  dear,  your  lips  yield  a  triolet. 

Beauty  through  beauty  to  beauty  again. 

What  of  your  fame? 

Fame  in  my  own  way,  the  lone  way, 

Expatriat  ever  from  the  blight  of  this  land  .  .  . 

Somewhere  hand-in-hand  ...  in  the  car  ... 

An  open  road  .  .  .  and  lilacs  for  Spring  .  .  . 

Down  at  the  sweep  of  the  valley,  and  the  river's  sil- 
ver-blue ...  we  would  make  town  by  dusk  .  .  . 

Let's  have  dinner  in  our  room 

And  watch  the  carmine  evening  loiter  in. 

You're  clever  .  .  .  Lilas  was  the  one  essence  for  to- 
night. 

Come  closer,  dear  .  .  .  this  is  our  night  for  love  — 

Tomorrow  we  will  be  in  Enfield 

Madness  of  May  .  .  .  not  long  ago  .  .  . 

Wild  roses  sensuate  across  the  dunes  of  Charldon  — 

What  was  it  that  came,  unbidden,  to  our  love  .  .  . 

A  new  thrill  when  I  had  sated  them  all  ... 

Starlight  over  the  sands  and  the  blue  singing, 
singing  .  .  . 

Was  I  not  god  .  .  .  You  granted  it,  my  own  .  .  . 

Kiss  me  again  .  .  nations  babble  their  way  to  oblivion  .  . 

This  people  has  long  outlived  its  epoch 

Gladness  of  May  .  .  .  well,  this  much  supreme  .  .  . 

I  was  a  god,  and  they  could  not  stone  me  ... 

A  god,  turning  your  body  to  flame 

And  your  warm,  wan  face  to  scarlet  .  .  . 


Chill    of    your    lips    in    passion  ...  I    drain    them 

again 

Sadness  of  May  .  .  .  another  Spring  .  .  . 

And  ever  the  soft  pathos  that  is  you  sorrowing  each 

hour  .  .  . 

Somewhere  .  .  slumbering  gardens  .  .  subtly  scented  . . 
A  waltz  half-heard  .  .  .  and  here 
The  blare,  the  flare,  cymbalic  of  this  land  .  .  . 
Again  and  again  you  came  .  .  .    and  were  gone  .  .  . 
The    soft    intangible  .  .  .  the     ever-sought  .  .  .  the 

never-found, 

Tempting  me  from  disillusion  to  a  new  despair  .  .  . 
Why  did  you  always  call  me  with  music  and  color 

and  magic  of  words  .  .  . 
I  remember,  but  I  soon  forget  .  .  . 
Song  for  my  singing,  color  for  my  painting,  words 

that  I  played  upon  .  .  . 
Artist    supreme  .  .  .  well,    You    granted    it  —  my 

immortality  .  .  . 

Quick  fever  of  Spring,  and  in  my  heart  a  cynic  hate 
Of   every   God-damned   thing   these  pureswine   ven- 
erate .  .  . 
Sometime  a  brass-band  played,  and  you  stood  in  the 

throng,  marveling  .  .  . 
Peanuts  and  popcorn  .  .  .  and  your  mother  had  never 

told  you 

Looking  down  upon  the  poppies  of  the  park  ...  a 

room  cerise  .  .  . 
Syncopation  for  possession 
And  never  a  doctor  for  denouement 

[3*1 


Caresses  pass,  and  now  only  memories  — 

You  that  promised  so  much  .  .  . 

And  someday  he  will  come  .  .  .  genius  indeed  .  .  • 

Eternally  lingering  between  the  lure  and  the  laze  .  .  . 

And  what  the  hell  has  phantasy  to  do  with  poetry 

When  art  is  ever  self  expression  .  .  . 

And  hours  pass,  and  days  pass,  and  months,  and  years  . . . 

Give  me  your  lips  again  .  .  .  there  was  the  song  .  .  . 

What  was  the  year, 

And  whose  were  the  hands  softly,  softly  about  me  ... 

Was  it  you,  Senestra? 

There  had  been  a  time,  you  remember  ... 

Apartment  stairs  and  lilacs  .  .  . 

Eager  idealists  in  a  world  of  grooven  fools  .  .  . 

Pathos  for  the  conflict  .  .  . 

Well,  it  had  all  passed  .  .  .  another  day  .  .  .  another 

way  .  .  . 
Triumph 


[33; 


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